


Cross Currents

by Apathy



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Bickering, Boats, Fluff, Gen, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:02:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22599796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apathy/pseuds/Apathy
Summary: Haytham, Connor, and a boat.
Relationships: Haytham Kenway & Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor
Comments: 8
Kudos: 103
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Cross Currents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sumi/gifts).



> Set during that time when Connor and Haytham ended up sailing to the Caribbean together.
> 
> With thanks to my beta, who looked this over at the eleventh hour and provided inspiration. All mistakes are my own.
> 
> For Sumi, who wanted something with Connor and Haytham.

It is possible, Haytham supposes, that he has been suffering the debilitating aftereffects of a head injury, and all the attendant loss of judgement that comes with such things. Or perhaps some insidious disease has crawled into his brain via the water that he accidentally inhaled, and now he is stark raving mad.

Both options are equally conceivable, given that Connor had been so kind as to hurl the both of them through a closed door and into the ocean without so much as a word of warning.

At least one of these explanations must be correct – for why else would he have agreed to accompany his naïve, misguided, brainwashed Assassin of a son on a long-haul voyage? No, he must have abandoned his wits at the bottom of the harbour, along with his hat… and oh, hadn’t _that_ been a joyous source of father-son bonding.

He had just been waiting on the pier as asked – or as demanded, rather, Connor being a boorish sort with no sense of proper decorum – when he had sensed a particularly hostile presence behind him.

“I see you have a new hat, Father. Who did you murder for it?”

“And a good morning to you, too, Connor.” He had turned, then, the very picture of calm. Connor had glowered at him, arms crossed tightly over his chest, and it had taken all of Haytham’s self-control not to sigh. “I did not murder anyone for this hat. I bought it with my own money. I can take you to the hatter I bought it from, if you will not believe me.”

It had been the truth – he has found out the hard way over the years that he has a difficult-to-fit head, and that any hat acquired through less conventional means will be likely to sit poorly upon him – but Connor had just shoved past him with a grunt.

And on that less than auspicious note, their journey had begun. 

*

Any hopes that he might have some time to himself have been rudely dashed upon the rocks of Connor’s sheer stubborn pigheadedness, with his upstart son having the nerve to try to order him to perform menial tasks. Cooking, cleaning, repairing – all of these things Connor has demanded of him, and all he has declined.

He has gained the most satisfaction from refusing to climb the rigging when ordered to do so, preferring to watch Connor simmer in his own indignation. The taunts from Connor and his men alike do not affect him – he knows full well that he is more capable than any of the crew – and so the more they try to goad him, the more firmly he plants his feet on the deck. Or, better yet, below it.

Which is why he’s now in the captain’s quarters, rifling through Connor’s belongings. The fact that Connor has made no attempt to prevent anyone from rummaging through his things – when there’s a high-ranking Templar on board, no less! – well, it beggars belief. Not only was the door not locked, it wasn’t even closed properly!

Haytham would be lying if he said that he didn’t feel at least a little insulted. Does Connor think so lowly of him that he does not even see him as a threat? Does he see Haytham as some old, toothless dog, all bark and no bite, so harmless that he can be left to wander the ship unmolested? Does the boy not realise that had Haytham taken him up on his demand to help out in the mess, he could have poisoned his entire crew?

… On the other hand, he thinks that maybe Connor had left the door open not as an insult, but merely because he has nothing of obvious value. His quarters are full of _stuff_ , and Haytham knows that a lot of it would be worth something under the right circumstances, but it’s not as if the lad has left a pile of money lying around. Perhaps he’s not quite so stupid as he appears, although surely that is actually not all that difficult.

But, wait –

“Hello, what’s this?”

It can’t be – but oh, it is.

“That old fool is still trying to find his almanacs?”

All these years later, and Franklin is _still_ trying to get other people to do his dirty work for him? Surely he could have just re-written them, after all this time.

But, still. Haytham _does_ still have his own almanac pages tucked away in a dusty chest somewhere; and, he must admit, the boy has managed to collect a not entirely unimpressive number of pages himself. Apparently he’s good for something other than complaining, being an enormous hypocrite, and steering his ship in far too reckless a fashion, after all.

He tucks the pages safely into his sleeve, and ducks back out through the door.

Perhaps this will be a lesson to him. 

*

Two bells finds him high above the water, leaning back against the mast, the predawn air cool on his skin.

Connor had told him to go to bed as the sun dipped below the horizon – all wrapped up in diplomatic phrasing, of course, telling him that he would need to get up early due to being on the first watch, the words _old man_ clearly on the tip of his tongue – and so he has whiled away the hours up here, lost with his own thoughts.

This week has passed in much the same way as the last, and he is quite heartily sick of it. Of it all – the orders, the false civility, the dirty looks from Connor’s men.

His _men_ – he still cannot quite believe that Connor has a loyal crew who hang on to his every word… but, well, there are idiots aplenty in this world, and he supposes that even idiots need gainful employment.

“The view is beautiful from up here, is it not? I would not have believed that there could be even more stars in the sky than I could see from my village as a child, but out here, it is as if they go on forever.”

Haytham does not jump – he does _not_ , dammit – but it is a close thing. To be crept up upon – and by an Assassin, of all people – it is embarrassing at best, and downright dangerous at worst. He supposes he can take comfort in the fact that Connor is finally showing a glimpse of worthiness in regards to his pedigree. With both parents excelling so in the fine art of murder, it only stands to reason that he should at least be competent in terms of the ability to move about quietly.

“Connor. What brings you up here?”

“The stars. The quiet.” A slight hint of amusement creeps into the edge of his voice. “The opportunity to spend some time with my old man.”

He does not rise to the bait; he knows that he will always be _Father_ at best, that anything else Connor may call him is designed to get on his nerves. And he does not wish for anything more than that, anyway. To want something more from the boy would be pure foolishness. Certainly, _he_ wants nothing to do with that kind of sentimentality.

“Don’t you have a ship to captain?”

“It is not my watch, and the men can be trusted to do their jobs in my absence. I am here on my own time.”

Haytham’s mouth twitches. “And you decided to spend it with me. I’m touched.”

Connor does not reply, seemingly content to gaze out into the distant dark. Well, two can play at that game; Haytham does likewise, allowing himself to appear relaxed. He’s not going to be outplayed by this brat, even if it is just a petty game of who can keep their mouth shut the longest.

Interminable minutes roll by on the gentle swell of the ocean. When Connor finally breaks the silence, it is almost a surprise. The boy is stubborn; Haytham had expected him to hold out longer.

“I see that you went into my quarters.”

“Hmph. Those barely count as quarters – a room full of junk, with the door hanging wide open so that anyone could just stumble into there?”

“You do not even deny it.” Connor shakes his head.

“Anyone could come in there, smother you in your sleep, and throw you over the side.”

“And yet, _anyone_ has not.” Connor sounds more self-satisfied than he really ought to. “In any case, the door is open so that anyone can use the quarters if they need to. It serves as an extra space for sick or injured men to recuperate.”

“Really?” The word is out of his mouth before he even realises it; he’s curious, despite himself. “Then where do you sleep?”

“With the other men. I am no Templar, to see myself as being above others.”

Haytham does laugh at that, unexpectedly – Connor is still capable of surprising him with his naïveté, it would seem. It is tempting to give him the clip about the ear that he so obviously missed out on in his youth; perhaps that would knock some sense into him. He suspects, however, that it is a lost cause.

The third bell sounds from down beneath them, rolling out into the night, and Connor stretches. “I have things I need to do. But it has been good to talk, Father. We should do this again sometime.”

Haytham stares at him incredulously, but Connor’s face is immobile as stone. Did he just make a _joke_ – ?!

Even though his expression gives nothing away, there is something in his eye that Haytham suddenly, painfully recognises as quiet hilarity. It is the same look as the boy’s mother would sometimes get when she thought that he was being particularly idiotic, and it is both infuriating and disconcerting to see it coming from their son.

He’s suddenly aware of his silence, and he clears his throat. “Yes, yes. We’ll have the father-son chat that you’ve always been longing for. I’ll teach you all about the birds and the bees, since it appears that no one else has bothered to even try.”

Connor dignifies this very true and pertinent point with nothing more than a terse “Good night, Father,” shifting his weight as he moves to climb back down the mast; and, then, the unthinkable – he slips, wobbling dangerously as one foot goes out from under him and the other threatens to follow –

It is instinct, really, that guides him, that sends his hand shooting forth and grabbing Connor’s arm before his better judgement can tell him to do otherwise. It is certainly only the adrenaline of an unexpected situation that sets his heart to hammering.

The moment is over in the blink of an eye; Connor regains his balance, straightens up, and smiles in a way that is far too smug for someone who just tripped over his own feet. As if Haytham saved him out of some kind of innate goodness or love for his own son, rather than the desire to not have to deal with his corpse! Bodies that have fallen from a height are some of the least pleasant to dispose of.

“Thank you for your assistance, Father,” Connor says, giving Haytham a hearty clap on the back that would send a lesser man tumbling to his death.

“Don’t expect a repeat performance,” he replies airily. “I’m not in the business of giving charity, especially when the cause is so hopeless. Honestly, Connor, I knew the Assassins were in a bad way, but this is beyond belief. Can they not even teach you how to walk without falling over? I’ve half a mind to take you under my own wing for a while, just so you’re not quite such an embarrassment.”

“Duly noted.”

But there’s no real sting to Connor’s words – even his juvenile eye-roll seems to hold a hint of amusement – and he swings back down towards the deck without further comment, moving much more smoothly than anyone who witnessed his previous stumble would believe him capable of.

Haytham leans back against the mast, watching the nascent sunrise, and doesn’t think too hard about anything at all.

*

He pulls off his boots with a sigh, glad to be back in his own quarters. The night was a long one, and, although he will never admit it, he is looking forward to getting some sleep.

He tugs irritably at his jacket sleeve, and – 

Wait.

The almanac pages – he definitely put them there, he remembers –

Another, far worse thought occurs to him. He pats furiously at his pockets, cursing when they come up empty. His money – his everything –

He remembers suddenly the way that Connor had slipped, the steadying hand that Haytham had so helpfully given him, and swears again, louder this time.

If he didn’t know better, he would swear that he could hear soft laughter on the other side of the door.

Maybe it’s not too late for that clip over the ear, after all.


End file.
